You have nibbled and eaten raw
scratching by nails
talking of a pink rose syndrome
under the corona of soft spikes.
Someone talks to you in your brain
guiding you to guillotine.
Life was not worth any meaning,
when questions were none.
No one to resume,
isolate green from the grains of empty desires.
Your hand travels from thorn to thorn
to reach the unrelenting fires.
Made of eccentric obsessions your house is far away.
I smell the yellow leaves falling,
one by one.
It is still dark, with no moon.
Question will become one day, the answer.
The answer will never be the answer
We will remain confused,
unclear about the question and the answer.
